Long Inflammable Poems
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Emotions spray isn’t particular to a selected few
but self control reigns supreme if
the mind’s lock succumbs to the key of maturity.
A negative impact steams out of the boil of behaviour when;
the eye swells through the accumulating poisonous fluids of greed,
the hand finds cover in gloves of selfishness,
mentality drinks the wine of sentiments,
appetite suffers an absolute anarchy from instincts,
anger smokes in a mind highly inflammable
and hunger trespasses the out of bounds
encouraged by the effrontery of hormonal quests.
Character and attitude have no race, tribe or fraternity
hence human exhibition is distinctly individualistic
and the DNA of actions, solely created by its carrier.
but like a group of similar bones with same skin cover,
one can stand tall to be notable like the fore-finger.
What I was thinking for her,
But everything went wrong.
I was thinking that she also loves me,
And just all dreams perished.
Year's dreams are broken,
And, mind now, sad over two days.
Thinking if she had just said me hi,
But she has another one in her mind.
Everything went wrong,
Everyone now far ahead of me.
Just because everything went wrong,
Just thinking of her lust,
But my heart is not going anywhere else.
On her! Everything went wrong,
And that also a time long.
Everything went wrong,
Everything went wrong!
And the flame of hate was ignited,
And now everything over.
Just focusing on the future,
Now I am not able to love.
Now I am not able to love.
Everything went wrong,
For the time long.
Now this flame will show her,
What will happen anytime after that.
Then and now,
Everything went wrong,
For a time long.
Date: 01/07/2021
The boat sways under a reddening sunset.
Is it wrong to wish for a Viking funeral,
to ponder a last journey West
into the dying light?
Strangers have always been my companions,
they intuit
the liquid, and inflammable nature
of this thing we do
- this poetry that is the life of us.
I could rest here in a free-floating skiff
adrift on a long warm wave of evening,
let the wooded lands and sloping meadows,
the smoke-stacked barge brimming harbors.
the patched up, river towns,
let them all slip on by
under the furled sails of evening clouds.
Just drift myself into the dusky flames,
as kindling for a starry night,
until the flowing waters enter a darkening fall,
or should I hitch this small craft
to an uncertain tomorrow,
maybe land upon another stump of reality,
one where imagination
can still idly play with fire?
a poem regarding evil-company
thus do learn to tolerate the blow of wings
of the most inflammable flesh
after the successful sacrifice of the student-hostel
jumping into the peacock-foams
how dangerously is changing the total travel-route of the nail-polish
in the high tide of the coconut-kernel
that conquers the world
today the water-pigeon gets pain
only by the flute made of palm-leaf
can’t be written the pleasure-trip in boat
of the injured-knee night-queen that is deposited heavily
on the collar of the village-moonlight
even-then the gramophone would be playing on
even-then the courageous pheasant would proceed further
to throw towards the squirrel a dinner-sleep
then all the daughters in disguise of birds certainly
may come out from within the salted mosquito-net
burning open-ground in their eyes
even after
the small boats of the fig leaves
would slip from the chorus song
of the roses
then they are to be pulled forward to the river-bed
of the late afternoon
to make them understand again
that such Xerox-centre which can ignore its metallic-birth
does not grow even now on either side of this muddy road
so look at to see how the epenthesis
of the screwpine-leaf withdraws her beak from the old dome
and pours
all new mathematics
into the compact-disc stitched with the back of the sea-tortoise
if that’s not real
how in the left and right
such evil-company of the oxygen would creep
if the next part of this commentary
resumes from the umbilicus cavity of the x-mass
would the blood-sugar of the water-plankton be rising continuously
look there again
the feather of colour that is in her adolescence
touches the cold magnet of her gamut
to disperse the cherry orchards
now if the doors of this brown triangle be got open
you can see on the screen one by one
the projection of the apex-points of the red-palash
and in the night-texture of the kathakali-kathak
they are supplying continuously
small sun-shines in poly-packs
Late one night walking in rain-hit New York,
Full moon kept watch as I measured my way,
shops shut, such silence unknown to city,
world in grip of scary virus menace,
my ears were pricked to every eerie sound,
They told me of the psycho cat’s demise,
encounter kill with predator unknown,
my stiletto shoes break peace with their clicks,
soft prattle of foot steps behind me like,
Eerie boardwalk creaks near the white sand beach,
Slowly I turn to confront my stalkers,
million eyes glitter in darkness of street,
dark brown hairy, big street rats of New York,
gnarl fierce as perhaps gnarled at psycho cat,
they ripped enemy to end his tale!
I knew the danger that I was faced with,
I reached into leather bag for weapons,
with prayer and courage I could summon,
lit my lighter and filled my mouth with wine,
blew a fountain, sprayed them shouting you swine!!!!!!!
Screaming and spraying the burning spirit,
mean rascals ran like they confronted devil,
So I escaped from almost certain death
thanks to cheap drink I carried in my bag,
The label I hide on the wine bottle,
inflammable mixture not fit to drink!
Suddenly screaming I wake up in bed,
sobbing next to my dear concerned husband,
have had enough of dreary pandemic,
this mask, isolation and long late walks,
if away for few months all should be fine,
Sabbatical dreams after quarantine!
Written 8/October/2020
‘Collaborate with me poetry’ contest
Sponsor Kim Rodrigues
in bold lines Kim’s lines
10 syllables per line
A few soaring trees
Here and there
On a green earth
Flowers with flesh in girth
The costume bear
No wear and tear
Air going out in BMW
Air coming in seven hues
This show is likely due to
System in a capital skew
In front of them
Is the waste land
Marshy messy meadow
Dull bushes in shadow
Looking ugly and small
Staring at the marble hall
“Can’t we get
Some healthy sunshine
A little shade by a hand divine
A tender touch of love
To get rid of
This wheeze and whine?”
But apathetic capital
Pays no heed
Day goes and night comes
The vulture is sure to return
Peeved mass of despair
Inflammable in the air
The other day came the headlines
Two fleshy plants molested
Raped and confined
Turmoil in the spine
The force opens fire
A gloom dies then and there
Tale of tearing tears everywhere
Grousing gore
Whether here in this shore
Or in Baltimore
Be that as it may
We shall overcome
In the long run
May be it will take
A lot of decades.
We have stars as our guide
And dream inside.
----------------------------------
One world in a trillion
Where everything clicked
In a Goldilocks zone
Where a switch had been flicked
Busted
Perfection soon rusted
When late party crashers
Were grab it and smashers
For eons they blended
Their world complemented
Till fresh out of college
With abundant knowledge
Busted
I’ve loved and I have lusted
I’ve taken and I’ve given
Not much to be forgiven
I never drilled for oil
But I used a small amount
So when the man says dust to dust
I hope that doesn’t count
Busted
Some plastic, some gas and inflammable stuff
So, no use in saying it wasn’t me, Guv
When I get my call from above
I’ve had my heating high
And I’ve had my water hot
I’ve left the faucet running
When I only washed a pot
Busted
That’s me done and dusted
I shall meet my creator
Through no incinerator
The mess we make as humans
Means every man’s on trust
For every year that we spend here
The more world we can bust
Busted
I’ll soon be soil encrusted
And I’d rather like to know
That the cost of me... was low
Sept. 11. is a dark and fateful day,
No one wants to live through.
A plane plummeted into the World Trade Center
And in minutes it turned into a tinderbox.
With a flash of light and a thunderous boom,
Billows of smoke darkened the sky.
Crimson flames rose high and danced in the air,
Turning hundreds into mere cinders!
Such atrocities are vicious and repeated
Caused by tempestuous passions and brutish urges
Violence erupts as pressure builds inside
No warning, no alarm siren
Sudden spurt of lava, effacing life, love, and dreams
War drums, grenades, gun shots
Fire spitting dragons of tanks
Sizzling missiles and bombs
Screams, wails, and bloodshed
Pale faced grimace of death!
It’s up to us to decide if we should be agents of peace
Or tinderboxes, highly inflammable!
Milton the blind bard of England sang
“Peace hath her victories
No less renowned than war”
Let no man take up arms against another
For when peace dwells within
There shall be peace without!
October- 27.2022
~ Placed Second~
This or That- Vol.14. Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Edward Ibeh
Trucks hauling away defunct Malls.
One city has been transported to another,
until superimposed, only the name are different.
Freeways chase endless miles,
looking for more things to shift,
shlep and shoulder.
Ninety per cent of everything movable
is assembled by 100 percent of new renters.
Oil, cattle, and inflammable gaseous toxins,
are handled by cab radios, satellite commands,
and shredding rubber.
The main drags compete to be anonymous,
wear the same masks, many disintegrate
or morph into closed forever signage.
In the concrete encircled,
whittled-down woods,
lovers try to imagine a better place to live,
one that is not yet on the road.
My boat rocks gently under a reddening sun,
is it wrong to wish for a Viking burial,
to ponder a last journey West
into the dying light?
Strangers have always been my friends,
they intuit
the liquid and inflammable nature
of this thing we do.
I could rest my soul here in this skiff
on this one long warm wave of evening;
let the wooded lands and sloping meadows,
the dredged, smoke-stacked barge brimming ports,
the patched up river towns slip on by
under the kindling sails of evening clouds.
I am laid out like a homeless person
bundled up in my rags and tinder,
a shadow in a small boat, drifting.
Night falls to the water
the words of strangers flame high
fire starters and their poems gleaming
as the dark rushes in.
I hitch the boat to a stump of land,
still imagining a Viking funeral,
but also resigned to a tomorrow -
yet another strange place
to play with this fire.